Whiskey Letters
by treasurehuntingforever
Summary: She finally gets out of hell, and finds him, the love of her life.  One-shot, Jo/Dean, takes place several years after Jo is killed.


I walk into the bar, with nothing but the clothes on my back and a dime in my pocket. I walk into the bar, soaking wet, dark hair plastered to my pale face. I know I must look something like death, barely alive. People glance at me, wary eyes not trusting where I might have come from and why I am there. I can see subtle movements, fingertips playing with a metal flask of holy water, hands reaching slowly into coats or bags. The song playing on the jukebox ends, but there is still the regular noise of the bar. Loud talking, glasses clinking, cigarettes being lit up, bottles opening. My eyes scan the room, zeroing in on what I seek. He is sitting on a barstool, hunched over his drink. That familiar face, those deep green eyes, full of anger and hatred and sadness. I walk slowly towards the jukebox, pulling the dime from my drenched jean pocket. The weightless ice cold coin slides into the machine. Clink, clink, rattle rattle, whir, whir. I know what song to choose, what buttons to press, without looking at anything. I've seen this moment flash before my eyes in pieces while I burned under the earth. It never made sense until I busted out. My index finger presses the worn out "E" button down, and then the "7". The slow melody of 'Desperado' drifts all around the bar. Our song.

He looks up from his glass, eyes wide and filled with pain. He looks right at me without knowing who I am. His green eyes meet my black ones. He knows me, and he doesn't. I focus on his glass, still getting used to this. I tip it over, with nothing but my poisoned mind. He takes his arm away from the table for an instant, distracted gaze shooting towards the spilled liquid. That is all the time I need, to manipulate the whiskey so it spells out three letters. He sees the letters, looking in wonder as they take form on the walnut counter. He looks back, knowing he won't see what he wants. He sees a tall, dark-haired beauty, with a perfectly translucent complexion, big red lips and beautiful eyes framed with thick dark lashes. This isn't what he wants to see. This isn't me. This was a comatose girl, the plug recently pulled by family members. There was no chance of getting my old body back. All that I was is now ash, scattered in the stormy wind after that fateful night.

What he wants to see a petite blonde, with dark brown eyes and pinky-white skin and cheeks a little too big for her face. A twenty-something year old girl with something more than a crush that crushes her heart. It's strange that I can't even remember how old I am, or how old he is. I can see that some silver sprinkles the brown of his hair, and the creases around his eyes have deepened with sadness. Years don't seem to matter anymore. One year, two years, ten, one hundred, one thousand. It's amazing that after all that burning torture in the pit, this heartbreak could still hurt me, and hurt me so much more. I await his reaction, his decision, and listen to the song, closing my unfamiliar eyes in familiar agony.

_ ...Ohhhh you aint getting no younger._

_ Your pain and your hunger,_

_ They're driving you home._

_ And freedom, ohh freedom._

_ Well that's just some people talking._

_ Your prison is walking through this world all alone..._

I feel something shift in the air. I open my eyes to see him standing two feet away from me, hesitant. I smile nervously and that's all he needs. Reassurance for both of us. The reassurance that I still don't think I will be enough for him. And his smile tells me how silly that is. His sincere green eyes tell me how much he missed me, and how much he loves me. And strangely enough he trusts that I'm still me, even if I'm not entirely human anymore. So he grabs me up and hugs me so tight my broken heart mends. And we leave that bar together in understanding.

We leave our song playing in the background as we stroll out into the rain. We leave the traces of sulfur on the jukebox, marking the combination "E7". And we leave those whiskey letters on the table. Some hunter will look the spill over curiously. They won't understand, and they will move on carelessly.

The letters "JBH"... the initials _he_ carved into the rock that marks my empty tomb.

_...It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you._

_You better let somebody love you._

_You better let somebody love you_

_before it's too late._


End file.
